


no archive warnings apply

by rime



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Character Development, Character Study, F/M, Gen, M/M, background sylvix, hate that this is what i'm into. hate it for me, meditation on writing, or whatever, self-sabotaging sylvain, sylvain: sad bad and dangerous to know
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-09
Updated: 2019-12-09
Packaged: 2021-01-25 21:08:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21362707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rime/pseuds/rime
Summary: "When are we meeting to workshop your stuff?"Bernie stopped short, drew herself up with as much dignity as she could muster, and looked him dead in the eye. Not bad for someone who only came up to his chin."You'reterrible,Sylvain," she informed him. "Terrible.""Please, Bernadetta." Twinkle."I'mterrible? After that cliffhanger you wrote? I've been thinking about it fordays."In which Sylvain becomes Bernie’s editor, slowly and then all at once.[continuation of their C and B supports that degenerated into a dual character study or something]
Relationships: Felix Hugo Fraldarius & Sylvain Jose Gautier, Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Sylvain Jose Gautier, Sylvain Jose Gautier & Bernadetta von Varley, Sylvain Jose Gautier/Bernadetta von Varley
Comments: 80
Kudos: 451





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> this fic does not actually have three chapters. it has about… 1.3?

"Bernadetta!"

Bernie twitched. 

"Bernadetttaaa!"

She kept walking. No -- walked faster. 

"I know you can hear me," he called, voice echoing down the cool stone of the corridors. "Am I that bad?"

Faster still. 

This was no use. She was hopelessly short, Sylvain hopelessly tall; he'd catch up to her in a handful of hasty strides. 

Sylvain was so _ insistent. _ She'd never had reason to talk to him before the... thing, her brain helpfully supplied, in lieu of allowing her to recall any details of the manuscript she'd left lying around. Yes. That whole thing. Before that? They'd never spoken. And why would they? They had nothing in common. He was outgoing; she couldn't leave her room. She’d never been kissed, whereas he’d hit on anything that moved. She’d heard stories. 

She grudgingly supposed they did have one thing in common. They both read. Humiliation though it might have been, ulterior motives that he might have had, he had read her work more attentively than anyone she'd ever met. Better still, his feedback had been more than kind, it had been _ correct_. Hate that as she might, she couldn’t forget.

Aaand he’d caught up to her, just as she’d foreseen.

"When are we meeting to workshop your stuff?"

Bernie stopped short, drew herself up with as much dignity as she could muster, and looked him dead in the eye. Not bad for someone who only came up to his chin. 

"You're _ terrible_, Sylvain," she informed him. "Terrible."

"Please, Bernadetta." Twinkle. "_I'm _ terrible? After that cliffhanger you wrote? I've been thinking about it for _ days_."

_ I don't know how to finish it, _ she wailed mentally, _ sorry, sorry, don't remind me -- _

“What’s going on with Leonel? Is he still abandoning Roderick? Speaking of, why is Roderick acting so weird? I thought he was sworn to protect him?” 

“Leave me _ alone, _ Sylvain!” 

"Also, when are they getting together for real? They got it on in the prologue, but it's been ten whole_ chapters _ since then and they _ still _ haven’t _ \--" _

_ Thwack! _

"What the -- that actually hurt! What is _ in _ your bag? Are those needles?!"

_ “Sorry! _” she wailed. She hadn't meant to hurt him, honest. Actually, she couldn't recall moving. She’d been clutching her bag, and it had just kind of happened -- 

"Bernadetta," said Sylvain, sounding more confused than anything. "Did I... do something wrong?"

"Stay away from me! I won't fall for your -- y-your coquettish --"

"And there you go again with the bad faith and the insults. Though with your vocabulary, it's honestly kind of charming --"

"-- your insincere, mendacious _ nonsense _ \-- "

"Flirtations, Bernadetta. They're just called flirtations." Sylvain sighed, rubbing his cheek where Bernie's bag had made its involuntary impact. "Look, I know my reputation is... how do I put it..." 

"Bad.”

"Right. Bad. But relax, okay? I won't do it if it bothers you. Flirt, I mean." His voice had changed: it was lower, neutral, honest. No doubt another of his _ tricks_. "And I am serious, you know. About the writing. Maybe I could help you."

"Help me," she repeated.

"Uh! Not that you need help." Sylvain scratched his head. Threw his arms behind it. "You're amazing, and talented, and -- right, not doing that anymore. It's just that with writing, more eyes and more feedback always seems to help. Or help me, anyway."

Wait, _ what? _

"Help... you?" she echoed dumbly. "You _ write_?"

"Sure, from time to time. Not nearly as well as you, but I've tried it!”

This new information motivated Bernie to appraise him carefully. 

It was so difficult to tell if Sylvain was being sincere. This could very well be an elaborate ploy to humiliate her. And normally, she’d say that’s what it _ obviously _ was.

But... his suggestions on her initial manuscript had been thoughtful. Thorough. Even… writerly. That he would be a writer -- it made sense. Could someone really give that feedback as a joke? 

Buuuut this was still _ Sylvain _ she was dealing with_. _ If not humiliation, then what? He had no incentive to help her write. Wait a moment. Maybe he… liked her? That was ridiculous. Impossible. No one was interested in her. Not as a friend or otherwise. And Sylvain was a flirt who hit on anything that moved, but he wasn’t desperate enough to hit on someone like _ her -- _

“So! What do you say?" said Sylvain, clapping his hands very, very loudly, and Bernadetta shrieked.

* * *

  
  
"Look, I'm sorry I startled you, but _ when _ are they gonna bone?"

Bernadetta shrieked. Again.

Or had she screamed? Maybe she'd screamed. Or sputtered. She couldn’t herself describe the sound she’d made, except by result: it had attracted the attention of everyone in the dining hall and more than a few passing knights. Yeah, it had not been good. 

She'd _ also _ dropped all the sweet buns she'd been stashing into her skirt. People were staring. And talking. About her. 

“Sorry,” Bernie whispered to herself, wishing fervently that she could just… sink into the ground and disappear, permanently. “Sorry, sorry, sorry --”

"Do you need help with those? You look like you need help."

"Sylvain," she wailed, as she wished fervently she had never left that stupid manuscript out, not for a minute.

"Okay. I mean, I think this is more buns than anyone can possibly eat, but I respect your commitment to not leaving your room. It's actually pretty cool."

_ "Sylvain!" _

"And I'm not saying anything dumb about buns right now. You know, because you hate my flirtatious garbage? Took it to heart." 

She had an involuntary retort ready to go when he winked at her and she realized it, instantly and horribly: she was making this worse. He _ liked _ when she was flustered! She couldn’t say anything!

Instead she cast desperately about for a seat, to no avail: every booth and table was packed, every student in the hall pointedly _ not _ looking their way. 

Sylvain followed her gaze. “Pretty sure it’s me, not you. I’ve got a lot of enemies in this dining hall.” His sigh was heavy, theatrical. “A lovely girl like you, though? You could sit anywhere. I’m sure you’ve got admirers.”

She immediately forgot her recent realization. “I-I’m not -- I don’t _ \-- don’t make fun of me!” _

Because she knew what she was: mousy and plain, nothing special to look at. And Sylvain knew that, too! He shouldn’t mock her! How unconscionably rude! 

“I’m not! You’re pretty cute. Especially when you’re flustered --”

“Stop it, you jerk! That isn’t funny!”

“What is this, Sylvain?” asked a gentle voice from behind them, one Bernadetta didn’t recognize at all. Wait. Choir practice, maybe? “Are you causing trouble?”

“Merrrrcedes,” said Sylvain, almost automatically. “Exquisite timing from an exquisite lady. We, uh, need to sit somewhere.”

Mercedes von Martritz ignored him completely. She was so radiant Bernadetta forgot to be angry with Sylvain. No, now she was just plain _ terrified_.

“Are you...Bernadetta?” Mercedes asked, laughter in her eyes. “I’ve heard so much about you from Sylvain.” 

Oh no. No, no, no. Mercedes had _ heard _ about her? And from _ Sylvain_? What had she heard, what could possibly have been _ said _?! 

“Would the two of you mind joining me?” Mercedes said cheerfully.

Soon they were in a cramped booth that did not seem structurally stable. Sylvain was engaging Mercedes in spirited conversation, which Bernie was grateful for, since she had apparently left cogent thought in the pile of pastries by the counter. Only one thought remained, and it screamed itself loudly from the rooftops of her brain: _ Goddess, I can’t talk to someone so beautiful. _

“Hey, Bernadetta,” Sylvain’s voice said, from distant space. “That was your cue to talk.”

“She looks as though she’s very far away,” marveled Mercedes. “Is she all right?” 

"S-Sorry," Bernie squeaked, and _goddess_ was her voice strangled. "You're just…” _ Don’t just say pretty. Think of something better! _ “...um, really pretty." 

Mercedes laughed, rich and throaty, her surprise unmistakable. "That’s very kind of you. I think you're beautiful, too.”

Bernadetta made a noise between a gasp and a shriek. 

"Yeah, I know this is going to come as a shock to you, but I don't flirt with ugly people," said Sylvain, around a forkful of gratin.

"Mercedes, that’s really nice of you, but... haven't we never met?" Bernadetta blurted, before she could stop herself. _ Idiot, Bernie! That's not what you say to someone who tells you you're beautiful! _

"That’s true," said Mercedes thoughtfully, "but Sylvain has told me much about you. Your soul shone brightly in the writing that he showed me --"

Bernadetta choked on her sweet bun. 

"Uh, you weren't supposed to tell her I did that," said Sylvain.

"Oh no," said Mercedes, "did I let something slip?" Then she laughed, and she laughed so charmingly that Bernie decided it had been worth it, every recent humiliation, just to hear that laugh. 

"Mercie, you devil," said Sylvain. "I always underestimate you. Why do I do that?"

"Oh, I wouldn't say that," said Mercedes, her eyes twinkling brightly. She turned to Bernadetta. “Um, I know that Sylvain may be a little...”

“Bad,” Sylvain supplied, helpfully. “Worthless. Total garbage.”

“_Different_,” Mercedes finished, ignoring him completely, “but he’s quite earnest about many things, really. He really loves your writing.”

“Yeah, because it’s _ great, _ ” Sylvain interjected, slamming the table with both hands. “Seriously, Merce, you’ve gotta finish _ Blood and Blade. _ The dynamic between the knight and his squire? Unbelievable. The characterization? Stunning. And don’t get me started on the _ sex --” _

Bernadetta ran out of the hall.  
  


* * *

She was halfway through her fifth fit of despair at how _ completely impossible _ opening sentences were when she became aware of the knocking. 

Persistent, irritating knocking that would not shut _ up. _

_ Knock knock. _

Bernie looked up. The doors of the library’s study rooms were made of thick and frosted glass, but the shock of red hair floating behind this door was still instantly, horribly recognizable. 

Sylvain Gautier was so _ stupid. _

He was so embarrassing! So frustrating! And he did _ not _ know when to give up! She clearly didn’t want or need his help! 

So why did he keep trying?!

_ Knockknockknockknockknock. Knock knock. Knock. _“Bernadetta, that’s you, right? I’m coming in,” said Sylvain’s voice, muffled through the walls. “We’ve gotta talk.”

_ “ _ Don’t come in_,” _ wailed Bernadetta. “I’m -- I’m -- I’m _ writing!” _

She wanted to be left alone. Maybe. Probably. And even if she didn’t, she _ definitely _ didn’t want to deal with making sense out of the obnoxious playboy _ riddle _ following her around!

“Uh, was that supposed to dissuade me? Because now I’m _ definitely _ coming in.”

“_Don’t _ come in, Sylvain!” 

_ Creeeeeeeak. _

“Uh, Bernadetta? Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Like what?” said Bernie. She had leapt to her feet without knowing, as cornered animals do. 

“Like, with deadly intent. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you wanted to kill me.”

“W-what? No,” she said, laughing how a normal person would, a normal person who did not intend to kill anyone. “That’s ridiculous. I haven’t thought about that. Why would I? That would be weird.”

“Uh huh. And what are you holding behind your back?” 

“Um, this? It’s… uh… it’s just a…”

“Looks an awful lot like a dining knife.” She hadn’t known he could pout so fiercely. “I’m hurt, Bernadetta. After everything we’ve been through?”

She responded with a glib retort. Or tried to. She definitely tried to talk. What emerged was a squeak. 

Sylvain didn’t bat an eye. “You _ are _ cute when you’re flustered,” he said, and collapsed into the chair by the door; it groaned nervously under his weight. “I wouldn’t lie about that. Hey, would you mind hearing me out? Without the knife?”

Bernie pocketed the knife reluctantly. She hadn’t _ actually _ meant to hurt Sylvain. Honest. She just… also hadn’t been able to stop thinking about it. Killing him and ending her complete and utter humiliation. Killing everyone who had read her romance and leaving no loose ends… but she’d have to kill Mercedes too, then, and that was a non-starter. It was so unfair! Sylvain thought of _ everything!_

“Now we’re getting somewhere. Listen, Bernadetta --”

“B-Bernie’s fine.” Wait… it was? Since _ when?! _

Sylvain blinked. Kept going. “Okay, Bernie. I’m really sorry I keep fucking this up. I honestly just want to help you write your stuff, if I can, and if I can’t, that’s fine too. I -- I mostly just want the world to see your stories. I think you’re a really talented writer.” 

“You’re laying it on thick,” she mumbled, not displeased. 

“Yeah, I -- I guess I see why you’d think that.” He laughed weakly. “But it’s true all the same.” 

“Why do you really want to help me?” she said. Her own bluntness shocked her. “There are prettier girls. Smarter ones. Don’t you normally go for those types? I-I’m just...”

“You’re _ cool_,” Sylvain said, with an earnestness she could hardly bear. “I think you’re really cool, Bernadetta. I think we could learn a lot from each other.” 

_ He thinks I’m cool? _

Sylvain _ thinks I’m cool? _

Bernie didn’t trust herself to speak, just wordlessly thrust her parchment at him. By the time Sylvain finished reading she’d managed to regain her composure, or enough of it, anyway.

“I mean, opening sentences are always brutal, but you’re doing a great job! What’s wrong with this one? The one circled in ink?” 

“A-are you _ kidding? _ Right now all I’ve got is _ A storm of blood rained furiously. _ That isn’t _ close _ to good!” Had she... been wrong about his potential?

“Well, it’s a little over-the-top, sure, but the imagery’s great. And I love the general idea.” Sylvain scooted closer to her, scratching the floorboards with his rickety chair; when he propped his feet up on the table, a stack of books fell off. “What if you did a more specific storm? Like a maelstrom, maybe?”

“A maelstrom,” Bernadetta wondered out loud. “Or maybe a hurricane, or a typhoon. Hm...”  
  
“Do you think the battlefield has to be rained on here? Maybe the storm can just tear through it? It’s not really a storm, is it?”

“It’s Leonel,” she said. “He’s, um… become violent. Ever since he was separated from Roderick.” This actually _ was _ helpful. Really helpful. “So then, maybe… _ One week ago, a maelstrom of blood and ruin had torn through this forest... _”

“Whoa,” said Sylvain approvingly. “We’ve got forests now. Ruin, too. I like it. You’re incredible, B.” 

“Sorry,” she said, because she was. Of course she hadn’t been wrong about him, about his uncanny potential as an editor. She should really have just let him help to begin with. 

_ Stupid Bernie. Stupid, stupid, stupid. _

“I have literally no idea what you’re apologizing for,” said Sylvain, “but it seems like I _ might _ have helped you make progress. Friends, then? Or editing partners, at least?”

He offered his hand, and Bernadetta took it.

* * *

They started meeting weekly after that. 

Sylvain was better at editing than he had any right to be. His edits were conservative but always constructive; his delivery gentle even when his feedback was substantial. And he was, above all and most meaningfully to her, supportive of everything she tried to do. Her own experiments with lowercase, with footnotes, with whatever odd concept she’d dream up: he’d roll with it and encourage her. It felt like he believed in her vision more than she did. 

She wasn’t used to support from anyone. It was… surprisingly nice. 

Really, the worst thing about him was his tendency to flirt at stupid times, like shattering a critical moment of editing with some -- some completely _ senseless _ comment about how someone so cute and talented could write no wrong. Not that Sylvain was really flirting. As she’d gotten to know him better she’d become almost impressed at how insincere he was about it. 

As a writer, the trait practically screamed of a root cause, of hidden intrigue. As his friend, she didn’t pry. 

Most of all she wished she could read his writing. It wasn’t _ fair _ that he got to read so much of hers! But it was the one thing he was consistently reticent about, dodging and diverting as only he could. In the end he’d promised to show her “someday,” whenever that was, and she’d taken it. 

In the half-year since she’d started writing _ Blood and Blade, _she’d never felt better about the quality of it. She felt like it was better than any of her previous work, maybe even good enough to be published somewhere, in some small and unnoteworthy anthology. And she knew she had her stupid editor to partly thank for it. 

But she was hitting a wall. She had no idea how to finish her story, and it seemed important, suddenly, to know how it would end. This was more of Sylvain’s influence: he’d suggested having an ending in mind and working her way towards it, and she’d thought it a good idea at the time. When she’d started writing, though, before his help, she’d really just begun with Leonel and Roderick and their tormented relationship, and had thought no further. While that had been great for intra-scene chemistry, it also meant they weren’t really _ going _ anywhere between the scenes. And then her own personal indecision meant she couldn’t for the life of her decide where they ought to go.

She tried to distract herself from the problem by picking a better title. Sylvain did not help with this. 

“Have you tried _ Two Knights Who Are Way Too Into Each Other_?”

“Figured out why you didn’t go for that last one. It’s cause Roderick’s not a knight, he’s a _ squire _\-- wait, I've got it! _Sword in Hand. _ The sword is his --” 

_ “Die Hard. _ Just call it _ Die Hard.” _

_ “Crossing Blows.” _

“Alright, get this: _ True Chivalry. _ And then the subtitle is _ How I Murdered My Squire With Really Good Sex: An Autobiography.” _

In the end she stuck with _ Blood and Blade _just to shut him up. 

* * *

“You... think I should submit to _ this_?” Bernie all but wailed. 

_ The Writers’ Guild of Fodlan is soliciting submissions for our twentieth annual Young Fodlan anthology! Our awardees have gone on to enjoy recognized careers in fiction across Fodlan and beyond. _

She couldn’t do it. She _ couldn’t! _

“Is something the matter?” asked Sylvain.

_ Yes, _ Bernie wanted to scream. _ I’m bad, and this anthology is very, very good. _

“Let me guess,” said Sylvain. “You think you’re bad and the anthology’s good.” 

“H-how did you know?!” 

“Because it’s obvious. But you’re good. And the anthology’s good. Match made in heaven, yeah?” 

She looked back down at the slip of parchment he’d slid her, simultaneously innocuous and completely terrifying. How had he _ found _ this? 

_ All submissions must be sent in by the Ethereal Moon. Selected writers will be notified shortly thereafter. May the goddess smile upon you! _

And the Ethereal Moon?! That was just around the corner!

“The deadline’s in a couple weeks, but I think _ Blood and Blade _’s more than ready. Don’t you?” Sylvain’s expression softened as he looked at her. He seemed to have realized she was actually afraid, which was itself embarrassing. “You okay?”

“Sylvain, this is… it’s the most prestigious anthology for students and recent graduates across Fodlan. I can’t --” Bernie gulped. “I can’t submit to something like that.” 

“Of course I understand. I read it,” Sylvain said. “You should definitely apply. I think you’ll get in.” 

“Um,” Bernie said, because there was _ no way _ she would get into this anthology. 

“At least try,” he said, softly. “Don’t run away.”

Really, she was nowhere near good enough. She was certain of it. People like her weren’t supposed to apply to these things. They shouldn’t. If you could never get in, what was even the point?

_ Even so _ , a little voice said inside her, one she had never heard before_. _

No, it had always been there, hadn’t it? She had just never been able to hear it before, not with it drowned out by the terror and noise that flooded her when it came to writing -- came to everything, really. Somehow her soul was quieter now, quiet enough to hear the voice clearly. And what it said was this: _ you should listen to Sylvain. _

“I’ll help you,” said Sylvain. “We’ll edit twice as much. More, even. Whatever it takes to submit your story by Ethereal. What do you think?” 

Bernadetta nodded. 

* * *

He made an unexpected pitch to her four weeks out. 

“Hey, Bernadetta, can we make a deal?” 

_ Oh no. Why would he say that? _

“We’re editing more now, right? That’s no problem for me at all, but you have to do something for me, too. Promise?” 

Bernie instinctively began racking her brain for possible causes of deals, cataloguing the various mistakes she might have made. Had she been late to this last-minute editing session? Wait, she’d been early. Was it... bad to be early? Maybe it was bad. Really bad. 

Or maybe it wasn’t her timing. Had the revised epilogue she’d sent him been bad? Bad enough to merit _ apology? _She didn’t think so, but it was possible -- 

“You have to stop apologizing,” said Sylvain. 

That stopped her in her tracks. “What?” 

“You heard me. I just don’t think it’s fair for someone so cute to say sorry so much. Not when she hasn’t done anything wrong.” Sylvain looked at her. 

“I don’t -- “ Was this related to anything? “When did I say sorry?” 

“Are you serious?” said Sylvain. “Uh, for being early to this, thirty seconds ago? For knowing the answer to whatever Seteth asked in lecture? For fixing your epilogue? You’re up to _ seventeen _ apologies in our interactions just today. I was counting.”

Bernadetta’s throat was dry. Did she really apologize that much?

“So that’s my pitch. Unless you want me to skip all our meetings, _ or _ you want to keep hearing about what a beautiful, intelligent, _ talented _ writer you are --”

_ “Fine,” _she yelped, and hoped it came out sounding halfway decisive. “Fine! You win, okay?! I won’t apologize! Ever! For anything!” 

“Wait, no, that’s not -- I mean, if you hit me with your bag, you can still apologize,” he said quickly, rubbing his arm where she vaguely remembered hitting him the other day. That had been an accident! It _ had! _ “Just don’t apologize when you don’t do anything wrong. I mean, I _ only _ do things wrong -- “ _ wink _ \-- “ and I’m not exactly sorry for it.”

_ That’s not true, _ she wanted to say. _ You apologize to me. _ He apologized to her… quite a bit, actually. For making her uncomfortable, or thinking he had. It wasn’t what she would have expected before getting to know him, and it was a little hard to make sense of even now. She could press the issue, she _ was _ curious…

But none of that invalidated his point, did it? She did apologize a lot. And she didn’t think she could bear the embarrassment of telling Sylvain that nonsense, anyway. 

“Let’s just edit already,” she said instead, doing her best to quell the quaver in her voice, and Sylvain beamed. 

_ Four weeks to go. _

* * *

The weeks before the deadline went by in a blur. If she’d felt like her writing was improving before, now she could viscerally feel it. The pacing was improving. Scenes were rewriting themselves. Sylvain was somehow always free to help. He was as serious as getting this accepted as she was, maybe more; his edits were ruthless now, recommendations to remove or rework sentences, paragraphs, entire scenes that weren’t accomplishing enough, weren’t achieving their goals. 

During one marathon editing session she realized that the last few weeks were the longest contiguous block of time she’d ever spent with anyone, let alone a boy. Then Sylvain had narrowed his eyes and questioned her word choice (“wouldn’t he accede here, not concede? it’s a request, not an argument”) and she hadn’t even had time to blush. The ruthlessness was good, and they were at a point now where she could hear it without beating herself up for days, and that was good too.

_ Two weeks to go. _

* * *

_ Thump! _

“I’m done,” she said, breathless.

He eyed the manuscript she’d flung onto the desk. Lifted it gingerly. Dropped it. “This is it, huh? The submitted version.” Picked it up again and felt the heft of it in his hands. “Lighter than I imagined. More blood than blade, I guess? Hey, okay, reading now. I’m really excited.”

It _ was _ lighter. She’d edited it down quite a bit. And she felt lighter, too. She hoped he didn’t hate what she’d done. Especially the way she’d ended it, after struggling for so long... she’d have to wait and see.

She did. She sat for hours, willing to wait as long as it took as he devoured it, his eyes tearing across the pages. The preliminary signs were good: such sustained enthusiasm was unlikely to be pretense. Goddess, she _ hoped _ he liked it. She’d reworked entire sections, pored over each and every chapter, made sure it all flowed just right. And then the ending… well.

It was half past one when he closed the binding and let out a low whistle, making her drop all of her embroidery at once. 

_ Well? _ she wanted to say. But there wasn't any need, because Sylvain was smiling.

“You’ve outdone yourself,” he said, smiling ear to ear, and for once she believed him.

* * *

Which made it all the worse to get the letter.

_ Thank you for submitting to this year’s Young Fodlan anthology. We regret to inform you we are unable to include your submission in the anthology at this time. _

The buzzing in her brain had begun at the first line, and it was getting worse. Worse and worse. 

_ We received a record high number of applications from across Fodlan. We were very impressed by the quality of submissions… On behalf of the Guild, we thank you for participating in the selection process. We wish you luck in your endeavors. _

_ May the goddess smile upon you. _

A handwritten note was attached to the bottom. Bernie skimmed it. Something about how she’d been good. But not good enough.

She wasn’t ever good enough. 

* * *

“You look awful,” Sylvain said. “Spit it out. What happened.”

“Nothing happened,” she said.

“You look dead,” said Sylvain. “You look like Felix. Fuming.” 

“I’m fine,” said Bernie. 

“There’s no one in the library but us. Spit it out.”

“I’m _ fine! _ Do I not look fine?! _ ” _

“You look like someone I wouldn’t even hit on,” said Sylvain. “Not if I were dead.” 

That did it. “I do _ not,” _she said, very crossly, and Sylvain beamed.

“Hey, now we’re back in business. But really, short stuff. What’s wrong?” 

She thrust the letter across the table at him. Sylvain’s expression darkened visibly. 

“They _ rejected you?” _ he said in disbelief. “For the anthology? Are you serious? Saints, I’m sorry. Was there a reason?” 

“Not really.” She didn’t sniffle. She _ didn’t. _ “I…”

“Wait, there’s something here. At the bottom.” He was reading the letter again, closely and with obvious annoyance. “_ To the writer -- This work is exceptional in many ways. However, we do not feel we can include it in the anthology, largely due to the experimental format you employed. _ How about that! Oh no, there’s more. _ Our committee debated for some time before making this decision. We strongly encourage you to submit again next year.” _

Sylvain rolled his eyes. “They say they’re not at liberty to disclose editorial decisions… and then they go and put in a note about how your stuff is too _ unusual _ for them. And then they tell you to come back later? Ridiculous.”

She didn’t want to dissect it. Not then, anyway. She mostly wanted to curl up in a ball. 

“You know, don’t take this the wrong way, but I’m kind of surprised they wouldn’t take you just because you’re a von Varley. Your family’s pretty influential, and I’m pretty sure the Guild’s based in Adrestia...” 

“Oh,” said Bernie. “Um, I… didn’t sign it, actually.” 

“Ah,” he said. “Right. You’d rather die than put your name on this kind of thing.“ He sighed. “It’s just -- I know I’m your biggest fan, but seriously, I thought every chapter was stellar. You wrote a romance with a plot -- a plot that addressed the human cost of war, which is no mean feat -- _ and _ it was really hot, _ and _ you wrote multiple endings. Multiple! I’ve never seen anyone do that. I can’t believe they didn’t like it.”

“I should’ve known better,” she said, almost to herself. “I should never have applied...” 

The only person who’d made a mistake here was _ her. _ For daring to think she was good enough. A colossal idiot like her? What a joke. 

“Do you really think that?” said Sylvain. “I read this anthology every year. I think this would have been one of the best things it ever published.”

“That’s…” 

“I think it was your best work yet.” 

She didn’t know what to say. Of course she thought it was good! It was her work! But it didn’t _ matter _ what she thought! 

“I thought it was good,” she said, quietly. “But it wasn’t good enough. I’ll, um, try again next year, so…” 

“Those morons don’t know anything,” he said. It was the angriest she’d seen him. She wasn’t sure why. 

He stood up from his chair and stared into nothing, as if thinking. Then he turned to face her, and she could not place the expression on his face at all. 

“Bernadetta,” he said, “do you want to go on a date?”

* * *

Sylvain wasn’t acting like himself. At least, she didn’t think so. 

No one else seemed to notice. And she doubted herself when she heard his laugh in the halls, easy and unaffected, or when she saw him at the library without her, studious and working late, mouth slightly open as he pondered whatever papers he was writing. 

But one couldn’t see Sylvain for months on end without picking up his tells, and she saw the laughter fail to reach his eyes, saw him snap a quill clean in half from irritation, saw the recklessness in his movements as he stalked the halls. He seemed troubled.

Too troubled for a date. That was tonight, wasn’t it? That had been eating at her all week.

Sylvain had said it was to make her feel better, had clarified it wasn’t anything serious. _ Not a date date, _ he’d said, _ just a date. Unless you’d like it to be. _ And then winked. _ I figure it could help us both feel better. Or one of us, anyway, _ he’d said cryptically, and disappeared before she could ask what _ that _ was about.

And why had she agreed to go? In her post-anthology depression it’d seemed like a decent idea. Now that she’d had a couple days to think about it, though, it seemed risky. No -- scary. Downright terrifying. But that was why she had to do it, wasn’t it? To live a little, and to challenge herself. She couldn’t exactly make a career as a romance writer if she’d never gone on a date.

Plus it wasn’t like Sylvain was _ unattractive. _ His jokes were okay. He was conversationally adequate, his face... symmetrical. Oh, who was she kidding? There probably wasn’t anyone better to go on a date with in Garreg Mach. 

Not under normal circumstances, anyway. But given how he was acting… 

All in all, she had a odd feeling about the impending evening. Writer’s instinct never betrayed, and right now it was twisting in her gut, telling her _ fiercely _ that all this could go down in about one of two ways:

It could be [[ sweet and gentle, a warm and firelit evening, and she might learn something about him, something she never knew ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21362707/chapters/50885656)] --

Or it could be [[ dark and restless, an uneasy evening full of anguish and self-sabotage, wounds inflicted by alcohol; an evening that spiraled out of control, to dark places she’d never been, and yet fascinating and rewarding in its own way ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21362707/chapters/50885734)] --

(Which would it be?)

  
  



	2. Chapter 2

Her concern had been overblown, Bernie decided, and she was grateful for it. 

The evening had taken her mind off her predicament, and very agreeably so. She was feeling tipsy and pleasant. Sylvain had been, honestly, more than a gentleman than he’d expected. He’d kept his flirtations to the obviously comical, like hitting on their appetizers, or tipping the waitress for stolen glances. It was abundantly clear he was doing his best to cheer her up. 

Her own mood, on the other hand, was oscillating wildly. At some moments she felt horrible and sick and ready to swear off writing altogether. But at others she felt almost happy, because if the past few months of frenzied writing had never happened she would never have become friends with Sylvain, wouldn’t have the wonderful evening she was having now. 

Now they were back in her room, sprawled on the floor, splitting a bottle of wine he’d stolen from the pantry on their way back, and Bernie didn’t drink much but she could see the appeal: you lost your inhibition, a little bit, enough to not worry quite so much about whether everyone was looking at you and thinking you looked stupid and your writing was terrible garbage.

Sylvain, though. Sylvain drank a _ lot. _ And tonight he’d finally had enough to drink to do the unthinkable. 

“You’re _ showing me your writing?!” _

“Sorry I’ve only got this chapter on me,” he said, grin mischievous as he fished wads of parchment from his pocket and uncrumpled them gently, like little leaves. “I figured I’d only show you in an emergency, but if this isn’t that, what is? Here you go.”

Bernie barely heard him as she devoured the pages. Two knights. Childhood friends. They didn’t seem to have names yet, which she supposed was alright for a prologue. One was studious and one playful; one focused and determined, one cheerful and carefree. The prose itself was somehow precisely the Sylvain she knew, in turns light-hearted and foreboding. The juxtaposition worked astonishingly well and she couldn’t get enough of it, the bleakness of the setting, the witty repartee --

And then she was done _ much _ too soon and whirled to face him, hands shaking so badly she dropped the parchment.

“Done already, huh?”

“Sylvain,” she said. “This is _ really good.” _

He was lying on the floor, hands behind his head as he gazed at her ceiling.

“You don’t have to pull punches. Okay, maybe not right _ now _ , but I promise when I’m sober we can workshop the _ shit _ out of this.” 

“Noooo,” she protested, with a slight hiccup. “This is... it’s really good! I mean, maybe there’s one or two things, but overall? It’s good! It’s really good!”

Sylvain blinked several times. “Wait. Are you serious?”

_ “Yes!” _

“That’s... flattering. You know, I was going to burn the whole chapter and start over, but if you like it that much? I just might keep it.” 

“_ And, _” Bernie said, importantly, waving at him like a… wavy thing. This was very important. “Now I know your... secret.”

“Hey, don’t -- how much have you had to drink?” 

“You don’t actually like them! The girls you date. You dooon’t. I knew it,” she said, then thoughtfully hiccuped again. 

“Uh,” said Sylvain. “Where do you -- okay, you know what, you’re not _ wrong, _ but maybe don’t spread that around. Also, I’m going to get you some water.”

“And the person you _ actually _ like --” 

“Oh no,” said Sylvain. “Let’s, uh, not talk about this anymore. Actually, I’m tired. Really tired. What say we call it a night?”

“Fine,” said Bernie, very glumly. She wasn’t a pest. “But first. I wanna read… the next chapter. Gimme.” 

“Can’t read it,” said Sylvain at once. Bernie raised her eyebrows. 

“Sorry! You just can’t. I’d love for you to, but it’s more, uh, detailed. It’s --” Sylvain took a deep breath. The words sounded pained, like they were being extracted by force. “Then you’ll know who it’s about, and even for me, that’s fucking mortifying. So you can’t. Them’s the breaks.”

“Isn’t it just Felix?” she said, confused, and Sylvain choked _ hard_.

“I don’t know what you’re -- How does _ everyone _ know this?!” 

“What do you mean, how does everyone know? Who else could it _ be?!” _

“It could be _ you _,” he said, and Bernie snorted. She’d had a lot to drink, but not that much. 

“I’m not your type. I’m nobody’s type, Sylvain. I... know that,” she said, voice faltering. 

“Don’t say that,” Sylvain said, his gaze suddenly flinty, serious. “It’s not true.” 

It _ was _ true. “They say I’m weird,” she said, hiccuping slightly, “that I don’t have any friends, that I never leave my room, I’m so weird, but I _ do _ leave it, I’m _ trying --” _

“You’re doing a great job,” said Sylvain, more gently than she’d ever heard him. “Hey. You are, okay?”

“It _ sucks_,” she wailed. “It sucks and I _ hate it!” _

She hated to admit it, but being friends with Sylvain had maybe, possibly, made her bolder. And if it hadn’t made her bold enough to comfortably go outside, it had, at least, made her bold enough to curl up on the carpet and cry.

“Hey. Look at me. Hey. _ Bernie.” _

He flung an arm around her shoulder and held her as she sobbed. He was warm and reassuring, and she hated that, too. He smelled like warm grass and parchment. 

“You know I’m not just doing this as charity work, right?” Sylvain said. “The workshopping, the date, all of it. I’m your friend, and I think you’re cool. I mean, I just _ like _ you. I wouldn’t do this if I didn’t.”

That startled her out of her misery. She stared at him for a long moment. 

If she’d learned one thing about him over their months, it was this: Sylvain was always working off a script. Scripted lines for scripted girls and scripted interactions. Maybe that was why he was drawn to writing -- it wasn’t so different, really, from what he did for himself. Define a character and play it. Commit to a bit.

But this dialogue, so artless and unlike him -- it wasn’t in the script, was it? 

She was suddenly so tired. What a long, exhausting day it had been. She wanted to roll over and collapse like a log. 

“Sylvain,” she said, sleepily fumbling for the right words. “Let’s... submit to an anthology. Write something. Together.”

And ordinarily she knew what kind of response to expect from him: _ an anthology of hotties? you bet I’m down, _ or _ that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me, _ or _ hey, what’s this? you coming on to me? _

But he was off-script, now, and she much preferred him this way. 

“Write something… together?” he said, almost to himself, as if she weren’t there. A long pause. Finally, low and thoughtful, as if surprising himself: “Yeah -- let’s do it. I’d like that.”

They sat there like that, for a very long time, until she had fallen asleep and Sylvain was sure he wouldn’t wake her. Then he got up, very quietly, and stared into the fireplace for some time. Eventually he emptied his pockets, a curious expression on his face as he tossed crumpled wads of parchment into the fire, one by one. 

And then he disappeared, into the cold, into the night. 

  
  


[ (In another timeline, restless --) ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21362707/chapters/50885734)


	3. Chapter 3

She knew her hunch was right when he didn’t show up to meet her for over an hour after their planned meeting time. When he finally did he reeked of alcohol. 

“Sorry I’m late! I was just, you know, picking a fight with Felix for no reason. He was _ mad. _ It almost got physical! Shame it didn’t, huh? Anyway. Sorry!”

He didn’t look sorry. He looked miserable. More and more strung out with every word.

“Um,” Bernie said.

“And _ then _ I drank a lot. And then some more. And now… I’m… here!”

“Uh,” Bernie said.

Sylvain clapped his hands. “So! Where are we going? The Lion’s Den? The Plough and Stars? Somewhere they _ don’t _ serve drinks?” 

At this point she was running out of noises. 

In the end they went to the Boar’s Head, because Sylvain wanted to keep drinking, and because she wanted to stitch a boar and thought to use the sign as reference. Happily, they both got what they wanted; she traced over the pattern while he lounged next to her and ordered several more pints of Dagdan ale than she was expecting. They split the fries. 

“Some potatoes they’ve got in Albinea,” he said, around a greasy mouthful. “Wish they made ‘em like this in Faerghus.”

“They have three main varieties,” she said. “The tastiest ones grow in the north. They’re really good grated and fried, but you can also make flatbreads or even liquor out of them, and... did I say something wrong?”

“What? No, you just... know a lot about this,” said Sylvain. “It’s impressive.”

“Oh, well, um,” said Bernie. “I don’t know much. I just cook sometimes.” She hadn’t even gotten to explaining the other varieties...

“How did I not know this?” he wondered aloud. Then blinked, twice. “The breakfast scene. So _ that’s _ why!”

“W-What?”

“You know! The one where Leonel tries to make breakfast and just... fails. That scene.” Genuine warmth had crept into his voice, the first time she’d heard anything like it all evening. “It was so detailed, even on the first pass. I should have known it was something you loved.”

She wished she had more for him to edit. She didn’t know how else to bring him out. 

It was so hard to pinpoint what was wrong with him. The biggest tell was that he wasn’t smooth tonight, not in his usual way. Tonight he was practically jagged in how he jumped from topic to topic, exploring just long enough to be caught on an unpleasant snag and leap to the next anything of interest. It was nothing like his normal style and much more concerning. And the terrible notes in his voice --

“Why did you agree to this?” asked Sylvain suddenly, very abruptly. The warmth was gone. “This date, I mean.” 

“Huh?” she said, flustered. “Um. You were… persistent?” 

“I wasn’t, actually,” he said. He was examining her. She didn’t understand why.

“And… because I like being around you,” she said simply. “I thought... it would be fun.” 

“Mmm. And not because you see me as, I don’t know, a fucking studhorse with a Crest?” His laugh was sharp, mirthless. “I wouldn’t mind. Really. I mean, you’ve got one too, so maybe _ I’m _ the one with ulterior motive here. What are you, Indech? Isn’t yours _ better? _” 

“That’s not -- that isn’t -- this isn’t that at _ all,” _ she said, astonished. How could he say something like that? Did he even know her?! “It’s just because I like you, even when you’re weird.” That, finally, made him start and shift in his seat uncomfortably. Good -- that made two of them. She forged on. “I just feel… comfortable around you, and safe. You’re… safe.”

Sylvain snorted at that.

“I’m not, actually,” he said. There was that note in his voice again, awful and dissonant. “I’m very far from that.”

“I trust you,” she said, as Sylvain’s face grew darker, as something reared its ugly head between them, something fanged and dangerous. 

“Trust me, huh?” His eyes were bright. Too bright. “You’re funny. What if I told you it was all an act, this time we’ve spent together? That you’ve never once seen the _ real _me?”

“I wouldn’t believe you,” she said. 

Her hands were shaking. She didn’t know why. She wasn’t scared -- not of him, anyway. Scared of whatever was happening within him, maybe. _ For _ him. 

"What if I told you this was all a ploy to get in bed with you? If I told you everyone was right about me? That you were just another one of my _ girls?” _

The venom in his voice -- she’d never heard it before. 

“I could lean over, just like this, and kiss you,” said Sylvain. “Make you feel good. You know I’d be good -- _ real _ good. Like your stories. It’s all I’m good at. How about it?”

His laugh was wretched. He reeked of alcohol. And he was very close to her. 

_ Don’t run away. _

It was ironic that his efforts now were failing precisely because of his efforts in the past. The Bernie of long ago would have been scared and horrified, would have absolutely turned tail and ran and locked herself up with her embroidery and her books. That Bernie would have never gone outside again. But she wasn’t that Bernie anymore, and she wasn’t scared at all. She was only… sad. Sad that someone did this to him, and that she couldn’t help.

“You don’t mean any of it,” she said. “You just want to scare me.” 

That tore a laugh from him, sharp and unpredictable. “Go on, don’t stop there.” 

“So that you win. So I’ll run away, and you’ll know I don’t understand you.”

“Yes,” he said, admiringly. “Yes, _ yes.” _

“Just to hurt yourself,” said Bernie.

“Fuck, you’re so smart,” said Sylvain, “so fucking smart. I wish Felix were even half as perceptive as you, _ fuck_.” 

The awful light in his eyes was fading now, had begun to fade as she watched him. In a moment it was over, and once again he was Sylvain. 

“You’re right, of course,” Sylvain said. “I never thought any of that garbage. Not until just now, when I said it. But I didn’t think -- I thought you’d -- “ His voice was terrible. “I thought I’d push you away.” 

“I know,” Bernie said. 

“It usually works,” he said. He took a long slow draught of his ale, set down the tankard, and looked her in the eye. “By the way, the anthology that rejected you? Let’s just say they’ve changed their minds. You should get a letter about it in a couple of days. Look forward to it.”

Bernie didn’t understand what she was hearing. She couldn’t. 

“Gautier connections and all that,” Sylvain said. He wasn’t looking at her. His voice was -- expressionless. “Guess this fucking Crest can be good for something.” 

“You -- what did you do?” she croaked. “Did you _ threaten _them?” 

“I don’t know,” Sylvain said. “Did I?”

As much as she had wanted to be in the anthology, so very desperately, she didn’t want any part of it now. No part of _ this. _ “I -- I can always resubmit, it’s okay, my story wasn’t any good. I-I know it wasn’t as good as the others, I can just try again next year --”

An empty laugh. “Are you listening to yourself? You know what, you’re right, you’re not as good as them. You’re _ better_. Even I can see that, Bernadetta. Why can’t you?” 

She didn’t know what to do or say, but the anguish in her face spoke for her. 

“Okay, okay. I didn’t threaten anyone, all right? Don’t look at me like that. It’s enough to make anyone grow a conscience.” He threw up his hands. “If only. I actually just… withdrew my own piece from the anthology. And that made room for yours.”

His own piece. From the anthology.

“You... submitted?” she said, in barely a whisper. “To the anthology?”

“You weren’t supposed to know. No one was. But yeah, I did. I don’t know, I thought it’d help somehow. And it did, funnily enough, but not in the way I was expecting.” Her stare seemed to agitate him. “Look, I don’t care at all about that thing. And you do. And your writing’s much better. You deserve this.”

He’d gotten into the anthology, and she hadn’t -- and had he even _ tried? _

“I know what you’re thinking,” Sylvain said. “How did I get in, when you didn’t? But that’s easy. I just told them my name. _ Used _ my name. I figured out what happened when they mailed me.” He grimaced. “My mistake, right? It was never my intention. I didn’t want to be commended for being Sylvain fucking Gautier. I just wanted to tell a story. But I fucked that up, too. So if I can’t be recognized on my own merits, then, well, I don’t want any part of that.” He looked at her. “See? Not so different, you and I.” 

“What will you do with it?” she said, breathless.

“I don’t know. Burn it, probably.” He stared into nothing. “I’m sure you can figure out who it’s about.” 

“I’m sorry,” said Bernadetta. 

“Don’t be. We’re not doing that anymore, remember? And anyway, I’m the one who should be saying sorry to_ you. _”

“No, you -- you don’t have to,” she said, biting her lip. “You shouldn’t. You told me I shouldn’t, so you shouldn’t either.”

“I told you not to apologize for no reason,” said Sylvain. “I’ve got a lot to apologize for.” 

To that she had no reply.

* * *

It was curious to walk side by side with someone yet feel so utterly alone. She knew he felt it, too: the strangely mutual sense of isolation as they wandered home, wind whistling and leaves crackling under their shoes. She was happy to have the time to think, and since he was uncharacteristically silent, she supposed he was, too. And then, as they came up on the gate to Garreg Mach at last, the flickering of the sky startled them both.

“Oh,” said Sylvain. 

“Wow,” breathed Bernie, because words failed her at the sight: one, two, three, a dozen, _ dozens _ of meteors piercing the evening. She could hear students within the gates exclaiming, too, at the little shards of light streaking high above them, flashing brightly and burning out before they passed the horizon. 

She’d never seen anything like it. But from the looks of it, Sylvain...

“The Leonids,” Sylvain said. “Brightest meteor shower of the year.” He rested against a nearby tree and craned his neck up. He looked more wistful than she’d ever seen him. “Means we’re passing through some cosmic shit right now. Comet debris, I think. You can see hundreds of meteors an hour during this one. Man, I really like these guys.“

“How do you... know so much about them?” she asked, her turn to be surprised by an esoteric interest.

He shrugged. “Book I read a lot as a kid. _ Astronomy of Fodlan. _ Felix gave it to me. He used to be really into this kind of thing, did you know that? Stars and planets, rocks, birds. The natural world. He was so…” His voice caught, petered out. Kept going. “I used to watch this every year. With Felix. And Glenn. We’d make wishes. Cute, right? But after Glenn died, he wouldn’t wish for anything anymore.“ 

She could see their breaths in the air, in little puffs; hear his breathing, ragged and unsteady. 

“Said it was stupid and stormed off,” Sylvain said. “We never watched them again. I wished he hadn’t, but I mean, he was right. It’s not like the goddess is out there listening. And if she is, she sure isn’t listening to us wish upon these stars. Or maybe she just doesn’t like _ my _ wishes.” 

Bernie breathed in, once, quietly and quickly so she didn’t lose her nerve. 

“I’ll make a wish with you,” she said. “I -- I have one. So let’s make our wishes… um, together, please.“ 

Sylvain stared at her. He had stopped pretending. 

“I want you to stop hurting yourself.” She didn’t know where this brave impostor had come from, the one possessing her body and moving her mouth. All she knew was that they certainly weren’t Bernie, the girl who couldn’t leave her room. But they were getting the job done, weren’t they? _ Good job, brave impostor. _ “That’s my wish. But you have to wish too.”

He was silent for a long time. Then: “Okay.” 

Then silent more. Then: “Sorry. It’s just -- I’ve got a lot of wishes and I’m trying to pick just one. Since, you know, you’re just supposed to make one, right? Pretty sure that’s in the rules for this kind of thing.” 

In the near-pitch darkness she had no visual cues to go on for what he was thinking or feeling. Only his voice beside her, harsh and crackling. “I think what I want most... Fuck.“ Now splintering, finally, into something honest. “I want to know -- I just want --” 

He turned to her, and for one brief moment a particularly bright meteor torched past them, throwing the contours of his face into pale relief. She saw him then, twisted and afraid. 

“I don’t think I can say it,” he said, low and helplessly, and she knew better than to ask. 

So she reached out her hand instead, timid but unyielding, and curled her fingers into his as he nestled his head into her shoulder and shook silently, as they watched the spray of stars.

  
  
  


[ (In another, kinder timeline --) ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21362707/chapters/50885656)   
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> -this started out as an excuse to write sylvain kabedoning bernie and then transformed into a meditation on writing and meta and bullshit. i still don’t know what happened. sorry that my indecision and love for zero escape led to two literal endings, hope they both add to ur experience  
-the leonids are the actual brightest meteor shower of the year and they are named for lions so [SHRUGS HELPLESSLY] that happened. yes. nagareboshi motherfuckers  
-IM SO FREAKIN TIRED  
-thanks nat and mareza for encouraging/editing/enduring my bullshit
> 
> find me on twitter [@letrasette](https://twitter.com/letrasette)! yell at me for my crimes! and if youre dimitri fire emblem reading this, kill me instantly! thanks for readin!!
> 
> (new: you can [rt this](https://twitter.com/letrasette/status/1192992440610803714) on twitter if u want, thank u!!)


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